


Villains of Circumstance

by orphan_account



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, F/F, Mesapotamian Mythology, Suggestive Themes, Underworld, will trigger warning if need be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:47:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25574566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Goddess of the Underworld was a force that is best left alone, and an entity that answers to no one. Old tales and the lowly whisperings from feasts where the death queen had stood uninvited talked of her unrelenting scorn and loneliness reflected in the gravely air of the Netherworld. They had all feared and hated Irkalla. Except for Becky Lynch, an arrogant goddess who thought otherwise, who was now punished to become a prisoner of the land of the dead.
Relationships: Sasha Banks/Becky Lynch | Rebecca Knox
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Villains of Circumstance

**Author's Note:**

> I initially was going to make this into a long one-shot but it honestly felt like it made more sense to make it into a three-parter... timeline wise? My second attempt at myth, Aaah, I enjoyed writing it I guess; so I hope you do too.

The underworld was an entirely different universe of its own, even in being the shadowy cousin of the surface world. Becky learned this as the boat neared the epicenter of the land of the dead, or _Kur_ \- as many of the older gods would have called it. In the same breath that they have warned her off of anything to do with its inhabitants; not to spite or even entertain its goddess whose name everyone else has refused to speak of other than _Irkalla_. 

_It shouldn’t be that bad,_ Becky thought to herself as she sucked in the dismal air of the empty river as the ferryman neared the docks. _Just seven days, Becky. Seven Days._

It was when the gatekeeper had spoken that Becky realized that Irkalla had a personal name and it had rolled out of her servant’s tongue so intimately, much different to the icy way that they had scrutinized Becky the minute that her boots touched the ground. 

“Are you here to see her?”

“Yes.” 

The guardian stared her down with its pale jaw turn upwards. “You were summoned in here.”

Becky didn’t respond, she refused to. She wouldn’t come back to the surface with the story of being dogged around, _especially_ by the undead queen; she who had suffered every death known to the living and the dead, she who was shunned by those that reside in the Garden of the Gods. They warned Becky, of course, of the dreaded punishments that awaited her transgressions; that the queen would be cruel.

But Becky was the goddess of destruction.

She can take anything. 

“You disrespected the queen.” The guardian sneered, in its towering height, its voice resonating like a melodious underground - even in the echoes that bounced within its hollow armor. This retracted a braced response from Becky as she stared at the suited servant with a squared jaw and flared-up nostrils; ready to retort. 

The denizens of the Netherworld had such exaggerated traditions around loyalty. She wasn’t going to blame them though, all they had were each other, in the vast and empty place

“That’s enough Gilgamesh.” A silky voice thundered out of nowhere, echoing from all the dark and misshapen corners of Kur. It carried the sound of what seemed like ten thousand souls; sullen but peacefully slumbered under the lake of the dead. And if it was possible for the height of Gilgamesh to lose all of its brutish nerve, it had. “Just let her in.”

That was her.

_Irkalla._

* * *

_Becky sat atop the mountain of Cuthah, her place of worship, watching the night get chased away by sunrise as the mortals had started to wake up to till precious land. It was almost Harvest and the basin of offerings had been full. Mortals die, through starvation, mostly - and the poor creatures gave the bulk of their livelihoods to appease the goddess that threatened their short, almost insignificant, lives._

_“Plague goddess,” the familiar, nasal voice of her friend, the goddess of water and mischief, and all things that were privileged and arguably good - neared her, determined to get on her veins before she had to leave for Kur._

_“What do you want Charlotte?”_

_The other goddess sat beside her, extending her long legs to stretch across the browning field. “Nothing? just wanted to check on how you’re doing.”_

_Becky scoffed, “Sentimentality is the consolation of fools. Now, you know that Charlotte. What do you really want?”_

_“I’m serious,” Charlotte’s tone sterned as her fingers stopped playing with the withering grass beneath them. “I hope you know what’s ahead of you.”_

_“It can’t be anything worse than being called the plague goddess.”_

_“Becky.”_

_“I’m not going to repeat myself.” Becky glared at Charlotte, a furnace behind her eyes. “Charlotte, I’m the Harbinger of Destruction. I’m sure I can handle anything.”_

_“Becks. Look at me.” Charlotte was unfazed. “You need to take this a little bit more seriously. It’s just seven days but if you cave-”_

_“I know.”_

_“You have friends in the surface world,” Charlotte scooted closer to Becky, intently staring at the war goddess who had fixated her gaze towards the rising sun. “I just want to make sure that you understand what you’re bound to lose, and what we are bound to lose if she holds you there forever.”_

_Becky was only silent as Charlotte’s words floated in her mind like suspended oblivion, unsure whether or not she should indulge herself in the fearmongering. The death queen took no prisoners._

_“I really…” Charlotte sighed. “I really wish you had just respected Bayley.”_

_“We’re really calling demons on a first-name basis now?” Becky smirked at Charlotte, it wasn’t a while back that it was precisely the water goddess who was making fun of the denizens of Kur. “What are you like, friends?”_

_“Shut up,” Charlotte hissed. “Demons are demons. Ambassadors of the death goddess? Different. Becky, you’re being too fucking arrogant.”_

_I can back it up, Beck thought. Albeit she never replied to Charlotte, her jaws merely clenched and unclenched to the sight of a fully risen sun - the greeting of a day that she would not be able to see for an entire week._

_Because Charlotte was wrong. Becky understood, full well, what was ahead of her - lest she thought that she did. She knew how slow time could get when one was hungry, thirsty, and feeling like the same pestilence that she had used as a ruling rod, crawling all over her skin. She knew that. She also knew that she could do it. Besides, to lay with the death goddess wasn't an option._

_The stories foretold of the horrors of her gaunt cheeks and her candlestick fingers, looking like the death that she represents._

* * *

The throne room was elegantly dim, a mixture of brass and gold candelabras lighting all of the important areas of the palace - the grisly heads of trophied bears and slain dragons lit from underneath, menacing on purpose; their glassy stares more animated under brimstone than it had been when they were alive. 

“Welcome to Kur, _plague goddess._ ” The goddess greeted Becky with the husky, feminine voice of looming cold - earning a delayed flinch from Becky, who was somewhat perplexed about the way that the slur had rolled out of Irkalla’s tongue. 

_That’s the goddess of war and pestilence for you,_ Becky inwardly seethed.

Irkalla sat in front of her as a faint figure, almost shadowy if not for the bits of fiery luminescence that revealed her dusky skin that looked damn alive. Her footsteps were light but sharp as she stepped out of the throne made of bones and cushioned velvet, and before Becky, what first emerged out of the shadows were shapely legs that could go on forever...

And then finely-cut clothes of satin and deliciously darkened red hugged her waist which swayed forward, making the face of Irkalla known.

It was _nothing_ like the horrific tales that she had been told as a young goddess over feasts where the death goddess stood uninvited.

Irkalla was… beautiful, as if moonlight was patterned after the sultry arch of her cheekbones, and finally it made sense that her voice would resonate straight into Becky’s being. Her posture was elegant, more life and majesty in her than the family of gods that had ruled the surface - more than the goddess of sex and life, the death queen's sister, Innana. 

Becky was taken aback, but quickly picked up the slack of her jaw, hoping that the death goddess hadn’t caught it.

“You embarrassed my ambassador, you embarrassed _me,_ ” Irkalla stated, chin held high, looking down on Becky; looking down on all the centuries and millennia that had launched her into her seat of power, looking down as a reminder of the young goddess’ inferiority. Because mortals worshipped Becky and the dead worshipped Irkalla, but in the Netherworld, as they stood a few feet apart, Becky was comparable to dust. “You know your punishment, don’t you?”

“I do.” Becky tried to match her arrogance, as every nerve in her body clenched with spirited youth - but her voice had failed to reach and bounce off the corners of Kur. It may be _that_ way but Becky told herself that she will see through the challenge because whatever the death goddess had in store, it wouldn’t be a punishment; she wouldn’t be the kind of goddess to be punished. “Seven days.”

“Or?” Irkalla arched a beautifully shaped brow. 

Becky swallowed thickly. “Seven days or forever.”

 _Seven days or forever_ , an eternity spent with the demons of the underworld. Just seven days, she could not eat, or wash, or drink in the nether region, the shadow of the surface world. Most importantly, lie with its queen. And Becky thought, and thought again, to convince herself that the challenge was fairly easy.

After all, she had starved before.

* * *

_The fireplace of her house was forged from the fires of an undying star, and although Becky needn’t to keep herself warm - it had decorated her home rather brutishly; a finely furnished hell, as she would like to boast. Against the popular conception of who Becky is- or, Nergal for the mortals, she did have a taste for the finer things in life. Whereas most would think that the well-shut doors of her house hid a disconcerting menace that was imagined through beastly corpses and blooded maces - it was actually, a rather exquisite place, if not a little comfortable._

_She enjoyed the carnelian glow that bounced off of her semi-polished scimitar as she sat in front of fiery heat, delicately wiping the blood off of its edges - crystallizing the previously hazy metal into a clear reflection of the ferocity of her own eyes. If there was one thing that the earthly whisperings were correct about though, it’s that she did have bloody weapons - but for fuck’s sake she was definitely one to clean them._

_The only consolation to it all was how warm the feeling of being feared had felt, being labelled as the most unpredictable and destructive goddess. Warmth in a sense where reverence for her household was certainly not just seasonal. The insurmountable feast that lay abundant on top of her stylishly-carved oak table allowed a sly glint blossom from the corner of her mouth. Fear paid dividends - if not through cattle and yield, sometimes, it would be through daughters._

_Her thoughts were briefly interrupted as a polite knock on her door reverberated from where she was sitting._

_Mortals should know not to interrupt godly business. And with this swift assumption, Becky grumbled her footsteps towards the gates of her house, her scimitar locked inside her palm’s angry grip._

_She almost tore the door open, if it weren’t for the house’s architecture that complimented the young goddess’ tendencies._

_In an instantaneous realization, Becky realized that what stood before her were two demons acknowledging her status with sophistication sliding out of their tongues as they mentioned her godly name, “Nergal, goddess of war and pestilence.”_

_The irritation that had been brewing within the pout of her lips died. Demons never visited the surface if it weren’t for the orders of the death queen. And suddenly, Becky was wracking the depth of her recent memory to understand exactly which one of her affairs had angered She Who Lives Below._

_“You must understand why we’re here.” The demons explained, their long, dark robes flowing unnaturally - defying the laws of earthly gravity. “Our queen, Ereshkigal, has a message for you.”_

_“You mean Irkalla?”_

_“Her liege has… many names. But she prefers that her followers, we, the ones who see, to call her something a little more intimate.”_

_“Well,” Becky nodded. “If this was about Babylon…”_

_“The Siege of Babylon is a trifle between you and the surface gods.” The demonic voice multiplied into a thousand echoes, its true and ghastly body making itself known to Becky. Spite rung out of their words, like a long-held grudge against the gods up at the gardens. “This is about her vizier, Namtar, our ambassador.”_

_For a minute, understanding softened Becky’s stiffened jaw as her hands relaxed from within her pockets. No one liked to be insulted, but no one, not even the high gods and goddesses must expect anything out of Becky other than what she was natured to do. “I’m not going to explain myself.”_

_“And Ereshkigal does not need an explanation.” Becky wasn’t sure why her knuckles had slightly paled with the implication. “The ‘underworld’, does not need an explanation. Ereshkigal wishes that you save those frivolities for the high gods.The underworld collects.”_

_If there was anything that told her about the death queen’s ‘requests’, it was the rattle and the jealous whispers of the gods and goddesses who were unable to deny it._

_It was rare that the death queen ever asked, she was the distant one, but she was still the sole ruler of a vast realm as big as the surface that hundreds of gods and goddesses shared._

_“You have one week, and then we’ll be back.”_

* * *

In the stories of the underworld’s sepulchure-esque nature, the land that croaked from beneath her feet was built on top of bones and bodies that had died from the affairs of warring gods. They had said that the arch of the death goddess’ temple had been built from the ribs of those who died in agony, instead of the fine white marble that was slightly illuminated by pale moonlight. And instead of howling from beneath the ground, the dead were _exactly_ like they were alive; proceeding towards their daily lives as they had been on the surface.

“You seem shocked.” The death goddess walked beside her. For a good second, Becky wondered how she was able to walk so gracefully with the way that her robes fell and dragged itself smoothly against palace grounds. “Not what you’d expect?”

Becky huffed quietly, absorbing the intricacies of her seven-day prison. “No. I just didn’t know springtime existed in the underworld.”

Irkalla chuckled to herself darkly. _You fools.There’s a lot you don’t know._ Her strides had gotten bigger as she led Becky to a day of excursion around the vast lands Kur; each location slowly revealing itself to be a mirror of the surface world, similarly inhabited, similarly almost alive with ghastly flora and fauna coexisting with the souls of the dead.

Maybe Becky could even find the mountain by which she was worshipped.

“Listen to me… _plague goddess_.” Becky’s fists tightened. Irkalla was adamant on reminding her of the inferiority of the surface-dwellers when in the Netherworld. She licked her lips, “You might as well get used to the sight and whatever warmth you can find in Kur. No one who descends the underworld ever comes back to the surface.” 

With those words hanging in the air that had started to feel thicker, Irkalla spun and left Becky at the gates of Kur - free, but fated to her own madness the more she tells herself that she doesn’t belong.


End file.
